


The Act of Moving Smoothly

by L_Morgan



Series: Transference [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever one door closes, another one opens. (And any minor government official worth his salt is always aware of his closest exit).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Act of Moving Smoothly

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [The Redirection of Feeling and Desire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/637680%20). This actually won't make much sense if you haven't read it.

He was just topping up his second scotch, when he heard the front door open and close.

Surprised, but by no means alarmed, Mycroft picked up the crystal tumbler and made his way towards the foyer.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, catching sight of his younger brother in the shadows. “What brings you here?” He looked over Sherlock’s shoulder and frowned. “Where’s John?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock gave him the once over, from his unbuttoned collar to his cottoned feet, and back up again. “Are you alone?”

Mycroft startled. “Not that it’s any of your business, but, yes, I am quite alone.” He centered his gaze on his brother’s face. “Or at least I was.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose, before huffing it out through his mouth. “Don’t act so superior, brother. I know you texted Lestrade.”

“And how, on earth, would you know that?” Mycroft asked, genuinely taken aback. Although he hadn’t asked the DI to keep their proposed assignation a secret, he was surprised, nonetheless, that he would have told Sherlock quite so soon.

“It wasn’t hard.” Sherlock slipped off his coat and hung it on the rack. “He received a text. Blinked. Read it again. Looked over at me. Looked down at his phone. Shook his head in what could have only been disbelief. Looked at me again, blushed, and then pinched the bridge of his nose,” Sherlock reported. “Who else would it have been?”

“Well, given that there is an estimated 13 million people living in the Greater London Metropolitan area, give or take a million--”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And yet there’s only two of them - one of whom was standing to my right - who would give Lestrade a cause to look at me.”

Mycroft smiled, amused despite himself by his brother’s deductions. “Well, it was just an invitation for coffee, Sherlock, nothing to be alarmed about. Since I haven’t even technically been introduced to the man--”

“Yet he does your bidding,” Sherlock pointed out, shouldering past Mycroft and waltzing into the main living area.

Mycroft sighed, before turning to follow. “He cares about you, Sherlock. Just because the two things often coincide doesn’t mean that you should belittle his affections.”

“Are you going to finish that?” Sherlock asked, looking over his shoulder, motioning towards the glass with somewhat of a distracted air.

“Why?” Mycroft questioned. “Would you like some?”

“God no,” Sherlock continued moving through the living room, towards the stairs. “But brush your teeth before you come to bed; I can’t stand the smell.”

Mycroft rocked back. “You’re staying?”

“Obvious.” Sherlock grunted. “Say what’s on your mind and stop boring me with drivel.”

Mycroft took a sip of scotch and began again. “Well, Sherlock, I’m surprised you’re here and I’m even _more_ surprised that you’re staying.”

Setting one foot on the bottom stair, Sherlock turned, bringing them nose to nose.

“Why? John’s went to his sister to spend the night and I, in turn, have come to see my brother. Why should I stay at Baker Street alone? It’s hateful there without John.”

Sherlock turned back towards the stairs. “Besides, I would rather be here. With you.”

Mycroft nearly dropped the glass. Shifting it to his left hand, he rested his right hand on the banister. “John _will_ be returning?

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Did you tell him that it was you then?” Mycroft asked, keeping his voice low.

“He guessed,” Sherlock confirmed.

“I see.”  Mycroft watched Sherlock’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. “And I take it things did not go well?”

“He’s at his sister’s for God’s sake, Mycroft!”  Sherlock snapped. “What do you think?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and took a steadying breath. “And here you are, at your brother’s. In truth, I’m not sure what to think.”

Sherlock’s shoulders rose and fell.

“John asked me if you’d known that I was alive and I said yes.” Sherlock went up one step, and stopped. “Before I could say a word, he laughed, shook his head and said, ‘Of course he knew - he knows everything.’ He became quite hysterical and then he asked me if I had been there when.... But before he even finished the question he looked up at me and said. ‘Oh my God, it was _you_ , wasn’t it? Mycroft all but told me that you were in the next room and I didn’t even listen...’”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft reached out, laying his hand on Sherlock’s back.

“He wouldn’t let me say a word, Mycroft. He just left. He told me he was going to Harry’s and that he wouldn’t be back.”

“Tonight?” Mycroft prodded, letting his fingers wrap around the silk of Sherlock’s shirt. “Or ever?”

“I think tonight,” Sherlock answered. “Not that I am an expert on such things,” he continued as he started up the stairs. “But he seemed more confused and hurt than angry - though I’m not sure which is better to tell you the truth. If you have any insights, brother, do share.”

Instead of following immediately, Mycroft counted to five and then took three deep breaths before starting up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway of the master suite, watching as Sherlock slipped out his trousers, underwear and all. He was completely bare.

Mycroft cleared his throat, though for whose benefit, he wasn’t entirely sure. “Aren’t you a little underdressed?”

Sherlock glanced over, but didn’t turn, affording Mycroft a long look at his elegant back, a ridiculously narrow waist, a surprisingly voluptuous bottom, and an insane length of leg. His front, thank heavens for small mercies, was obscured by the shadows.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Sherlock pointed out as he reached over, flipped on the bedside lamp. He pulled back the comforter - again, on _Mycroft’s_ side of the bed - and climbed in. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth, Mycroft. If not you’ll be disgusting.”

Mycroft surveyed the scene before him, taking another drink. He allowed the sharp liquid to roll around on his tongue before swallowing. “I hope that you don’t really think that John is in his sister’s bed at this moment or that he would in any way, shape or form understand why it is that you are here in mine.”

“Brush your teeth, Mycroft. I refuse to let you stand there, and lecture me. Trust me, I’ve had more than enough from other quarters this evening. Your job, tonight, is to comfort me.” He pulled the duvet up around his chin. “Not lecture me. If you’re going to tell me what a terrible person I am, I may as well go spend the night with Sally Donovan.”

Mycroft chuckled, his mind flooded with a vision of the DS’s face should Sherlock, of all people, show up on her doorstep at this time of night, clothed or not. “Perhaps you should finish this, dear brother,” he offered, moving to sit the glass on his, well, now Sherlock’s nightstand. “For you are clearly delusional.”

“Stop dawdling, Mycroft. I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”

“Then go to sleep,” Mycroft volleyed back, as he rummaged through his bureau for a pair of pajamas.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

 

After a quick wash with a hot flannel, Mycroft brushed his teeth, and slipped into his pajamas. Unlike the other nights that he’d spent with Sherlock - or, rather, that Sherlock spent with him - this time, he wore the top as well as the bottoms.

He had been surprised to see Sherlock; but he had been even more surprised to see Sherlock slide in between his sheets, naked. Obviously things hadn’t gone well with John and Sherlock needed.....

Well, Sherlock needed.

That Sherlock needed was never a question.

The only question was what, exactly, did he need? And what was it going to cost Mycroft to provide it?

Pushing away his concern, Mycroft flipped off the bathroom light, and walked silently to the empty side of the bed. He hadn’t even laid down properly before Sherlock was on him, his head tucked into Mycroft’s shoulder, one arm around his waist; his semi-erect penis pushing into Mycroft’s thigh.

While not new, exactly, it was rather unexpected. Trying not to think about it, he began again. “What is it, little brother?”

“I think I love John,” Sherlock admitted, his lips brushing Mycroft’s skin as he spoke.

Well, _that_ hadn’t been unexpected; in fact, he had been instrumental in bringing it about. What he had failed to anticipate, however, was how much hearing the words actually hurt.

“But,” Sherlock continued. “I don’t want to give you up.”

Mycroft’s jaw released. “Grow up Sherlock,” he snapped, a little bit harder than he’d intended. “Go with the love.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up. “What if I love you too?”

His breath caught; it had been 20 years since he’d heard anything close to those words from his brother. “Then I was right: Caring is not an advantage and you have a very difficult decision to make. But I think that we can agree that although it’s not entirely like comparing apples and oranges, the two have much to distinguish themselves.”

Sherlock pushed himself up until he could look directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “Do you remember that first summer, when I turned 16?”

“Of course,” Mycroft answered, his heart in his throat.

“All of it?” Sherlock asked. “Every single detail?”

Mycroft frowned. “What’s this _really_ about?”

Sherlock sighed and threw himself down onto Mycroft’s chest. “When I get angry, I tend to delete things. You know that about me. I can’t help it. Things just get overwhelming and I--”

Mycroft recoiled; he knew where this was going. So many betrayals; he could only hope that John would fare better then he had. “It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “At least not in the grand scheme of things.”

Sherlock tilted his head up until their eyes met. “There is so much about you that I’ve deleted - when I was angry. Whole chunks are gone. You’re no longer there.” He actually sounded remorseful. “There are entire years gone, Mycroft. It’s all gone.”

“There, there.” Mycroft ran his hand along the smooth plane of Sherlock’s back. “It’s all right, Sherlock. Besides, I have all of my memories of you. Every single moment is intact, filed away for _safekeeping_. And I can assure you,” he said, with just the right note of censure into his voice, “no matter how unpleasant they were at the time, they are among my most treasured possessions and that will never change.”

Sherlock took a deep breath in, but what came out sounded more like a cough. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Mycroft’s hand stuttered to a stop, before he remembered to keep moving it. “I will be here, regardless,” he assured. “And if there ever comes a time that you and John are no more, then I will be here again. Just like this.” He hesitated. “Or however else you need me to be ”

“Always?”

“Have I _ever_ abandoned you, Sherlock?” he chided, suddenly tired of his brother's complete lack of faith. “Even in those moments where you all but begged me to?”

Sherlock choked out a laugh. “No. But what if _you_ ’ _ve_ moved on? What about Lestrade?”

‘Ah ha.’ Mycroft smiled tightly. “It’s only coffee.”

After a few peaceful seconds, Sherlock took a deep breath. “Kiss me,” he said, more of a demand than a request.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft pulled his hand away.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock repeated.

“Why?”

“Because I deleted all of the other times, when I was angry.” Sherlock blew out a sharp, loud breath. “Why are you having me repeat myself?”

Mycroft held his tongue.

“I want them back.” Sherlock made it sound like Mycroft had borrowed his favorite pair of shoes. “And last I was here, I only kissed you.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Mycroft said, returning his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back. “You don’t need those memories, Sherlock. You and John will make your own memories.” He closed his eyes and forced himself to smile. “ _Better_ memories.”

“But _you_ have them.”

“Yes.” Mycroft admitted, remembering that summer well. Sherlock’s first kiss.... Well, Sherlock’s first a lot of things.

_Sherlock, tall and gangly, not quite in control of his body and not certain what to do about it. He’d demanded that Mycroft do something, anything. He didn’t care what. ‘Just make it stop, Mycroft,’ he had all but wailed as he crawled into Mycroft’s bed that night almost 20 years ago, now. He didn’t understand the changes in his body - oh, he knew what was happening at the biochemical level, but he didn’t understand it, not in any of the ways that counted. More to the point, he didn’t want it. He didn’t like it. He wanted it all to go away._

_That night, much like this night, Mycroft found himself in bed with his younger, much more naive brother, who wanted to learn and who only trusted one person enough to teach him - had only ever trusted one person enough to teach him anything._

Lying with a much older, but similarly clad, younger brother in his arms, Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle. He knew he sounded like a lunatic, but he couldn’t be bothered - nor did he know if he should even try - to hide his affection.

“You’re remembering!” Sherlock accused. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Mycroft tilted his head, just so, in order to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. “You were irresistible. And I admit it, freely, I was a terrible brother. If I had been a better person - and had you not been half as beautiful as you were, as you _are_ \- I would have wrapped you up in a blanket and bundled you out into the hall. I still would. ” He hesitated. “You know, Sherlock, out of all of the lives I’ve ruined and all the governments overthrown, I still believe that it will be that night, above all others, that will most likely ensure my place in hell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock poked him in the ribs. “It’s not like you to be so maudlin, brother.” He batted his eyes and smiled. “Wouldn’t you rather just kiss me and be done with it?”

As Sherlock shifted his hips even closer and slipped his fingers in between the silk of his pajama top, Mycroft sighed. “And will we be done with it? Is this truly good bye then, _brother_?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock mumbled. “Maybe. For now, if not forever.” He frowned. “John won’t share.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. And just to make sure the point was clear, he added, “Nor will I.”

Sherlock arched his back. “It’s only been you, until now. You know that.” His eyes narrowed. “Can _you_ say the same?”

“No, but then I never could.” Mycroft reached out to bring Sherlock back in contact with the length of his side. “Did it bother you?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Speaking of absurd....” Mycroft touched the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and then lowered his finger to rest on the bow of Sherlock’s pout. “....If you’re so convinced that John won’t share, then why are you here now?”

“Because John won’t share.” Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft noticed that he was doing that a lot. 

“Once he and I have started - if he and I ever _do_ start - he won’t share.” Sherlock frowned. “This is my - _our_ \- last opportunity. I have deleted the memories. I would like to remember this. I’d like to remember you. Us.” He shifted closer still. “Like this.”

Mycroft turned until they were face to face, allowing Sherlock to thread his legs around Mycroft’s knees. “The brain doesn’t work that way,” he pointed out; it was an old argument. “You may have chosen to forget, but they’re still there,” he said, pushing his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “The memories are all there in that ridiculously complicated brain of yours. You simply choose to ignore them.”

“They’re not!” Sherlock denied, his hand, ironically, falling exactly on the spot where he had once pressed a penknife into Mycroft’s neck and taken him, by force, against the wall of his dingy flat on Montague Street.

Mycroft shuddered with the memory of it.

The next day, Sherlock had overdosed and by the end of the week he’d been checked into rehab for what was to be the last time.

If memories could actually be deleted, that would be place he’d start. But as hard as he’d tried, he’d never been able to shake the hateful press of Sherlock’s fingers into his hips. Nor had he ever quite banished the sight of Sherlock, once he’d realized what he’d done, laying amidst the squalor of his flat, barely breathing - Mycroft’s blood still on his hands, the syringe still attached at the vein.

Sherlock’s lips ghosted over his. “I know what you’re thinking about,” he stated quietly, his thumb tracing the old scar tenderly. “I never meant to hurt you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded. “It was worth it,” he said thinking of the first time he’d seen Sherlock smile after he’d been released from the clinic. “In the end, it was worth it.”

Their faces mere millimeters apart, Mycroft slowed his breathing to match Sherlock’s, calibrating, listening, and calibrating again, until every breath rose and fell in unison. Not a word was said as Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned forward, finally acquiescing brother’s demand, and his own desire, for a kiss. 

~MH~

 

The water was boiling when he received Anthea’s text. ‘Of course.’

Sweeping up his cufflinks from the counter, he walked to the front door, slipping them through this shirt sleeves. He’d just gotten them fastened and the door opened as John raised his hand to knock.

“Good morning, John,” he greeted, motioning for him to enter.

For a moment, John just stood there, hand in mid-air. Frowning, he lowered his arm, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. “Is he here?” he asked, ignoring the unspoken invitation.

Mycroft glanced pointedly at Sherlock’s coat, which was just visible from the doorway. “Do come in, John,” he said, turning to make his way back into the kitchen.

He had just finished pouring the water into the pot, when John finally joined him.

Keeping the island between them, John leaned forward. There was an energy that was vibrating just beneath his skin that was near palpable in the silence. Mycroft wondered if John might try to hit him.

“Sherlock’s upstairs,” he said, deciding that there was no point beating around the bush.

John went absolutely rigid.

“In fact,” Mycroft continued as if everything was perfectly fine, “I was just making him a cup of tea. May I get you a cup as well, John?”

John shut his eyes, and then shook his head slowly. “You know, Mycroft, I have no idea what to say to you right now. I thought I did. On the way over it seemed so clear, but now that I’m actually here....”

“You’re upset.”

John’s looked up. “Upset?!” He leaned heavily onto the counter. “Mad, angry, confused.”  He took a deep breath. “Embarrassed. Upset doesn’t even begin to cover what I am.”

Mycroft reached for the cozy, settling it over the teapot. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, John.” He smiled, making a show of ignoring the additional pinking around John’s ears. “Indeed, it could have been much worse.”

“You think?” John asked, pushing himself away from the island, finding his feet.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, and widened his eyes meaningfully. “It could have been me.”

John made a sound deep within his throat. And then proceeded to say the one thing that Mycroft hadn’t anticipated. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you after,” he mumbled. “No matter what you did, that was a shit thing to do on my part. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft blinked. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

John took a step back and began pacing the length of the kitchen. “I just don’t understand!” John said, his voice barely a whisper. “Why did you do it?”

“You texted me,” Mycroft reminded, ever so gently.

“Yes, I know!” John clenched his fists, ground to a halt. “Then why did you let me do it? You knew he was alive. Was the whole thing a joke to you? Was he here the entire time? Did you talk about me behind my back?”

Moving swiftly, Mycroft was around the island, reaching for John. “I did it for Sherlock, John. And, no, he didn’t know at first. And yes, we talked about you and yes it was behind your back, but not at your expense. Never like that.”

John continued to shake his head. “Then explain it to me, because I don’t understand.” He took a breath. “I really don’t. And while you’re at it, explain to me what’s going on with you and Sherlock, because unless I’ve lost my mind, something’s changed.” John laughed; it wasn’t pleasant. “Never thought I’d see the day that Sherlock would come over here after a tiff with me, but then again, I never thought I’d see what I saw in the kitchen the other day either.”

Mycroft let his hand drop away. “From the time that we were children, I have been whatever Sherlock has needed me to be.”

“That’s it?” John asked. “That’s all of the explanation I get?”

“I’m not entirely sure what he’s told you about his time away, but by the time I received your text, I was worried about him.”

“According to you, you worry about him constantly.”

Mycroft smiled, acknowledging the point. “More so than normal. He’d stopped returning my texts and I had received reports that he was acting irrationally. When you texted, I decided that if I had news of you that it might draw him out. I hadn’t heard from him in weeks.”

“So you used me as bait?”

“You texted, I responded,” Mycroft corrected. “Just so you know, Sherlock isn’t the only person I worry about, John.”

John looked away. “But why did you--?”

Mycroft raised an encouraging brow.

“Why did you....” John sighed. “Why did you let me....?”

“Ah.” Mycroft smiled. “Why did I not stop you when you began to exhibit signs of interest?”

John nodded, but remained silent.

“You have no reason to be embarrassed, John.” Mycroft brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his cuff. “I knew that you were not interested in me.”

“You did?’ John looked doubtful.

Mycroft schooled his features into what he hoped was compassion.“Transference is not uncommon when one has lost a loved one.”

John blinked. “Transference?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “Transference - the redirection of feeling or desire from one object to another - is not an uncommon occurrence under conditions of stress.”

“I know what it is!” John all but shouted. “I _am_ a doctor, you know.” He looked over his shoulder, probably to see if he had roused Sherlock. “So you knew, and you just let it happen?”

“Yes, I did.” For this, he refused to apologize, though he would explain. “I texted Sherlock after each of our meetings, hoping that it would rouse him enough to show himself. Eventually he reappeared.”

He raised a hand, as John started to speak. “There were only two occasions where you were both here, simultaneously. The first time at dinner and the second....” Mycroft trailed off, knowing very well that John didn’t need a reminder.

“Whose idea was it?” John demanded. “That last time?”

Mycroft hesitated, not sure how much of this story was his to tell. “Sherlock was under the misguided impression that you were not interested in him _that_ way and that your feelings for me were entirely unrelated to him.”

John’s left eye twitched, but he said nothing.

Glancing down at his hands, Mycroft licked his lips. “Sherlock needed you, John. And though I tried to tell him differently, he believed that that was the only way.”

“So you tricked me.”

Mycroft met his gaze; he could the steel seeping into his own. “As I recall, John, I asked you, and I quote, ‘If Sherlock were here in this house, and was willing, would you have sex with him?’”

John closed his eyes. “And I said ‘yes.’”

“Yes, you did,” Mycroft confirmed. “I gave you what you both wanted and, more importantly, what Sherlock needed so that he could finish the madness with Moran and come home.”

“You do that a lot, do you?” John asked. “Give Sherlock whatever he needs?”

“Yes, John.” Mycroft straightened ever so slightly. “And I must say that it has been the most challenging work of my life. Despite what it may look like from the outside, our relationship, ever since he was old enough to speak, has been shaped _entirely_ by what Sherlock needs.”

“So what’s changed?” John took a step forward. “‘Cause what I’ve been seeing since he’s been back.... Something’s different.”

“For the last several years, Sherlock has needed an archenemy.” Mycroft forced himself to relax. “I played that role, albeit unwillingly. And, I must admit that I am pleased that that incarnation of our association seems to have ended.”

“Where does that leave you now, then?” John’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your next role in Sherlock’s life?”

Instead of answering, Mycroft took his pocket watch out of his waist coat and checked the time. It was 9:37. Sherlock would be down soon if he didn’t return with the tea and he was going to risk being late meeting with Lestrade if he didn’t wrap this up - neither of which was acceptable.

“I have no idea, John. I’m assuming that some of that will depend on you.”

“And how do _you_ feel about that?” John returned.

Mycroft tucked the watch back into his pocket. “A little redundant,” he admitted, more to himself than to John. “And more than a little relieved.”

He tilted his head up to the left, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a “normal” relationship with his brother, assuming that such a thing was even possible. “Free,” he said finally, weighing the word carefully, testing for its truth. “It makes me feel free.”

He met John’s frown with a smile, a genuine one this time.

“I really must be going, John,” he remarked as he moved to pick up his jacket from where he had left it on one of the high table chairs. “Would you mind taking up the tea? I trust you remember the way?” he added with a smirk.

John frowned. “Same room?” he asked, already moving around the island.

Mycroft’s soft snort was all but lost in the cavernous kitchen. “Actually....” He almost changed his mind - almost, but not quite.  “I believe you’ll find Sherlock in the room on the left.”

John nodded and Mycroft showed himself out without a word.

‘Good luck, brother,’ he thought, not unkindly, as he picked up his umbrella and case from where he’d left them by the door, and stepped out into the morning sun.

  

**Author's Note:**

> I actually thought that I was done with this story after "The Redirection....," but it appears that Mycroft had other ideas. Special thanks to my rockstar beta, Jadis. This 'verse isn't necessarily her cuppa, but she's a trooper. All remaining mistakes are mine.


End file.
